Mother Night: The Cult of the Scarecrow – Part 2

by Mr. K. 

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The ride in the truck was first though. Before they put me up on the cross, they had so many other things in store for me. Of course. I awoke from whatever they had done to me, and was immediately aware of where I was. Of what they were doing.

My eyes flickered open just as my body, my skin recognized the cold steel and oxidized smell of a rusty pickup truck bed. With of this bizarre chaos swirling around me, of all things, my mind went back to my grandfather’s pickup, and trips to the farm when I was a little girl. I remembered bouncing in the back of the broken-down old Ford, breathing in the smell of gasoline and rusted metal.

This was the same, I realized. It must have had the same busted-up structure, the same age, and the same history of work as my grandfather’s truck. Placing my palm against the load bed, I assumed my grandfather wasn’t cult member and a truck was just a truck.

That was when I felt the hands. I saw the man looming over me, and I felt his hands. I could still hear the people chanting and cheering, laughing and praying, but only one came forward to bring his hands to my throat. The load bed was full of chains – long lengths of steel that this man took in one hand. He gripped me by the hair on top of my head, pulling me upright and holding me there.

“Sit still whore!” he growled. He was swarthy and powerfully built. With my powers working, I could have beaten him with ease. As a broken heroine under whatever they had used on me, I could only obey.

“Sit, lady, sit!” he commanded. I did, sitting upright in the load bed as he now used both hands to wrap chains around my neck. He overlapped them, threaded them through themselves, and pulled tightly. My body shuddered as it braced itself as I felt the weight and the coldness of these lengths of chain. They pulled tightly around my throat like a fist, just close enough to start choking me. They weighed on my shoulders. Their metal edges dug at skin through the tight sheath of my costume.

They fell across the large, round curves of my breasts.

With his mouth turned down in a serious pout, he checked that they were secure, and slapped me. My head reeled and let out a groan. He smiled and jumped down off of the load bed. He smiled as he slammed the load bed door shut.

This was when I felt the truck lurch and start on its way. I was Mother Night being taken to church.

When the truck stopped, the rigidity had come back to my body. I was chained, and paralyze by whatever they had down. I could only look at the sky as the men crowded around me. It was men. Male hands gripped my thighs and my breasts. Males hands grabbed my hair. They grabbed the chains that held me.

They all pulled at once.

As my body - beaten, paralyzed, chained and costumed - was pulled free of the load bed, I was rolled into yet another storm of male hands. These worked as a team. None of them groped or grasped. Even when they grabbed my large breasts and my thick thighs, they did not knead me or try to wring pleasure from me. They moved me like an object. They held me like a woman who had just completed a trust fall into the arms of her co-workers.

It struck me, over and over, as they moved me about and carried me, that they never as much as copped a feel. When the lizard men of the Executive Branch had me, they could barely get down to the torture and peril that they had in store for me. They would start to walk me from one part of their office to the other, but would stop because one wanted to run the rough hide of his tail across my mound.

I remember how I stood there in chains, moaning and shaking as he rubbed the ridges against my vulva until I came, screaming.

This was years before my retirement. This was years before I was a prisoner of this strange cult. Still, I remembered how one grabbed me from behind like a playful lover. His huge reptilian hands were wide enough to cover and capture both of my big breasts. He squeezed and crushed, pulling me up against his body. I could feel his thick reptilian body and the relief of his designer suit.

I could feel the massive bulge against my ass. I moaned as it grew and pressed against me. I moaned as he arched back, lifting me from the floor. As my feet rose from the ground, I felt the pink quickness of his tongue against my neck. It slithered around, up the length of my neck and across my cheek. I remembered his tongue entering my mouth, as another Executive grabbed my thighs, slapped them, then opened them.

His pleated pants were open. I remembered that moment. Even as these men took me from the truck and carried my paralyzed body, I remembered his cock. It was huge and thick, but seemed more like a mockery of a porn cock than an actual man’s organ. It was the same brilliant green as the rest of the Executive that had splayed my legs apart.

It was covered in scales that were thick and heavy, but small enough to fit properly on an organ. I remember that his had two backwards-hooking horns sprouting from the head. I was silent as those clergy men took me off of the truck, but, back then, I screamed as the top of my lungs as it entered me. It tore through my costume’s crotch, invaded my cunt, and I screamed a woman on fire.

Now, with these men, I was as silent as a church mouse. They held me, scanned me up and down.

They each added their piece as to why I was such a find:

“See the hair? The red whore hair?”

“Her lips are painted red. She is the whore of the prophesy!”

“Large breasts. Look at them. And they match her hips. She is a perfect hourglass.”

“Wait! We must be sure. Brother Eamon! Measure! We must be sure!”

A young man with a bowl haircut and a tape measure came from the crowd. The others - the pastors, the ministers, the rabbis - they all hushed and watched me. They watched him.

I lay rigid – a paralyzed woman in a black catsuit – as he opened the tape measure and stretched it across my bust. He nodded, quickly shifting down to my waist, and then to my hips “37. 25. 36. Yes. It matches the prophesy. The sex. I have to measure the gate.”

With no hesitation, the men maneuvered. Some moved from my legs so that others could take hold of my ankles and spread my legs. I was paralyzed and rigid, but they could move me like a doll. As some kept my upper body place – hair tumbling down – as others spread me wide. The one they called Brother Eamon moved in and stretched the tape measure from one tip of my vulva to the other.

I have pronounced camel toe in my costume and it was easy for him.

“It is she,” he almost whispered. “It is she!”

They exalted, then moved like clockwork. Some held me while others put on masks. Scarecrow masks. They traded places so that others could put on their masks and no one would ever have to let go of me. I would never touch the ground as they put on their ceremonial masks and began carrying me into the abandoned church.

The doors were already gone, so they effortlessly carried me into a world of cobwebs, mildew, and stygian darkness. They never paused in their chanting as the maneuvered me. They pinned my legs together, spread my arms, raised me up high then lowered me.

They placed me on my knees, first. They had me kneel as a supplicant in that musty old church. One made sure to hold me up my long hair and force my head to face forward. This was an old abandoned church, so there was nothing much to see. The altar was gone. There was just empty darkness.

All of the men were still and silent, staring at that empty darkness until the elder in the scarecrow mask said, “Yes. We will.”

It was as though he was talking to someone unseen.

“Yes. We will.”

I had been crucified before. More than once, I had been crucified. Once, it was the superpowered man who called himself “Preacher.” It and been four against one when we went to capture him. It was Mother Fire. Emerald Shrike. Shade. Hexx – my daughter. I – Mother Night. We swooped in on him in the empty confines of his “church” and tried to harness his powers. We quickly ended up beaten, paralyzed, tortured and, each of us, hung up on a cross.

“You will learn faith and purity,” he said as he put a religion talesmen on each of us. He left us that way, saying that we would meet again.

When I was a captive of the prisoners on the space station prison, they crucified me. They had prepared a cross for me and they hung me from it when they weren’t torturing me. They would drown me in cum over and over again – cum that they had collected for me over the years. When I was on the cross, they doused me in it. They made sure that it was in my mouth and covering my eyes.

Now, these men crucified me again.

I could feel the beams of the wood against my body - against my limbs and down my spine - as they bound me to the cross. The ropes and the chains.

They praised The Whore of the harvest, because she would be the sacrifice. I was The Whore. I lay helpless as they bound me, and put the cross up to full height.

They said a prayer and left.

I was alone, crucified in the silence of the church.

Then the true scarecrow men came.